I have never been able to focus. In many aspects of my life, there is a lack of focus; my vision is blurry, my hearing is not the best, and I could rarely pay attention in school. Ever since I was little I could only ever channel my energy and focus on one thing. When I was little, my mother used to run a day-care out of our house. I remember that often there would be crafts, or a time set aside to color. I would spent the entire time in my chair, legs folded neatly beneath myself, with my head on the table. I refused to yield my seat for anything. No matter how hungry or tired I was, I couldn’t leave the spot until I was done. (What if someone took my spot, or, god-forbid, my crayons!) Whenever I draw, time seems to slow down. I can be sitting for hours on end and it feels like it has been ten minutes until I realize that it is four in the morning.
One of the reasons that time seems to slow down for me is because I always felt this intense need to do something amazing, something that I could never seem to accomplish. If I were to thank anyone for this, I would have to thank my mom. A lot of the other mothers in the neighborhood told my mom that she was wrong because sometimes, when I showed her a picture, she would tell me it wasn’t good, because she knew that it wasn’t my best work. My mom telling me that I was not performing at my best pushed me to do better. As though I had to win her approval. Although she didn’t seem invested in my drawing ability, I felt compelled, even as a child, to impress her by drastically improving.
I remember a numerous string of teachers, art teachers, elementary school teachers and others, who always seemed to try to crush my creative spirit. In particular, there was one test in fifth grade on fractions. There were two rectangles divided into eight little squares with instructions to color in 1/2 of the squares. I colored in every other square to create a checkered pattern. I still filled in half of the squares, but I didn’t get the question right. On a homework worksheet earlier in elementary school, we were asked to draw “two figures on the back of this page”. I remember working for hours, sitting at the table and then later crying upon realizing the mistake I had made, seeing that the rest of the worksheet was about triangles and circles. I drew two very elaborately detailed people, working on them for a good three hours before my dad came and told me that that wasn’t what the question had asked for. During the CMTs (Connecticut Mastery Test), I got bored, and instead of answering the questions, I spent the entire time filling in each bubble with a little picture of a cat.
In elementary school, I would stay behind because I would work until the end and then I would have to clean up my mess and I would clean up after other children too. I remember my neighbor telling me how the art teacher at our school asked her if one of her pieces could be displayed in an art show. My neighbor asked me if I was asked to have something in it too, and when I said no, she told me that that was because I wasn’t a good artist. She later told me that when we grew up, I couldn't be an artist because that was going to be her job.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.
On my third day of high school, I had Drawing I, and I showed the teacher something that I had been working on. She looked at it for a moment and then told me that what I had made was not art. After that class, I didn’t really do anything art related publicly until my senior year of high school. I still sketched little things on the sides of my homework, and did smaller things on the side, but I never put my name on anything I cared about after that. I had to get better to return and amaze everyone.
By my senior year, the school had gotten a new art teacher and I decided I would take another art class. This would be the first time I ever received an A in an art class. Soon after the start of the class, I began spending entire nights drawing by lamplight again. Erasing and redrawing and erasing and correcting the curve of a human cheek. I would spend days on end working with a single sheet of paper and a pen. I would put so much work into in class assignments, that even after coming in after school, during every lunch, and during study hall, any particular project could take months. The teacher never deducted late points from my work because she knew how much effort I would put into it. She would tell me what I was doing wrong and how I could fix it, rather than telling me that I was not good at art.
I feel like, in my experience, most of the time, people have been telling me I can’t. The people who should matter the most, close friends, family, art teachers, have all told me at one point or another that I am not, or will not, ever be able to amount to anything, as far as art is concerned. And because everyone was always telling me I can’t, I put a lot of energy into proving them wrong. When I was nominated class artist, before going on the stage, I had to ask the boy in front of me if they actually called my name. And even though I have put so much effort into becoming sufficient in art, I don't plan on officially continuing it. I don't think I will ever have the will-power to not draw in my notes or avoid it completely. I feel that even though the skill of being able to paint is pretty useless in modern times, what I learned from working to get better, learning to focus, was more important than anything I was taught in school.
I AM SUPER ADEQUATE AT DRAWING.
By: Elizabeth Hooper
I have never been able to focus. In many aspects of my life, there is a lack of focus; my vision is blurry, my hearing is not the best, and I could rarely pay attention in school. Ever since I was little I could only ever channel my energy and focus on one thing. When I was little, my mother used to run a day-care out of our house. I remember that often there would be crafts, or a time set aside to color. I would spent the entire time in my chair, legs folded neatly beneath myself, with my head on the table. I refused to yield my seat for anything. No matter how hungry or tired I was, I couldn’t leave the spot until I was done. (What if someone took my spot, or, god-forbid, my crayons!) As soon as I started drawing, it always has seemed that time kind of stops. I can be sitting for hours on end and it feels like it has been ten minutes until I realize that it is four in the morning.
I felt this intense need to do something amazing, something that I could never seem to accomplish. If I were to thank anyone for this, I would have to thank my mom. A lot of the other mothers in the neighborhood told my mom that she was wrong because sometimes, when I showed her a picture, she would tell me it wasn’t good, because she knew that it wasn’t my best work. Although she didn’t seem invested in me drawing well, I felt compelled, even as a child, to drastically improve.
I remember a numerous string of teachers, art teachers, elementary school teachers and others, who always seemed to try to crush my creative spirit. In particular, there was one test in fifth grade on fractions. There were two rectangles divided into eight little squares with instructions to color in 1/2 of the squares. I colored in every other square to create a checkered pattern. I still filled in half of the squares, but I didn’t get the question right. On a homework worksheet earlier in elementary school, we were asked to draw “two figures on the back of this page”. I remember working for hours, sitting at the table and then later crying upon realizing the mistake I had made, seeing that the rest of the worksheet was about triangles and circles. I drew two very elaborately detailed people, working on them for a good three hours before my dad came and told me that that wasn’t what the question had asked for. During the CMTs (Connecticut Mastery Test), I got bored, and instead of answering the questions, I spent the entire time filling in each bubble with a little picture of a cat.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.
I never got an A in art class until senior year of high school. I always tried to do more than was asked of me, instead of just doing the assignment. In elementary school, I would stay behind because I would work until the end and then I would have to clean up my mess and I would clean up after other children too. I remember my neighbor telling me how the art teacher at our school asked her if one of her pieces could be displayed in an art show. My neighbor asked me if I was asked to have something in it too, and when I said no, she told me that that was because I wasn’t a good artist. She later told me that when we grew up, I couldn't be an artist because that was going to be her job.
On my third day of high school, I had Drawing I, and I showed the teacher something that I had been working on. She looked at it for a moment and then told me that what I had made was not art. After that class, I didn’t really do anything art related publicly until my senior year of high school. I still sketched little things on the sides of my homework, and did smaller things on the side, but I never put my name on anything I cared about after that. I had to get better to return and amaze everyone.
By my senior year, the school had gotten a new art teacher and I decided I would take another art class. Soon after, I began spending entire nights drawing by lamplight again. Erasing and redrawing and erasing and correcting the curve of a human cheek. I would spend days on end working with a single sheet of paper and a pen. I would put so much work into in class assignments, that even after coming in after school, during every lunch, and during study hall, any particular project could take months. The teacher never deducted late points from my work because she knew how much effort I would put into it.
I feel like, in my experience, most of the time, people have been telling me I can’t. The people who should matter the most, close friends, family, art teachers, have all told me at one point or another that I am not, or will not, ever be able to amount to anything, as far as art is concerned. And because everyone was always telling me I can’t, I put a lot of energy into proving them wrong. When I was nominated class artist, before going on the stage, I had to ask the boy in front of me if they actually called my name. And even though I have put so much effort into becoming sufficient in art, I don't plan on officially continuing it. I don't think I will ever have the will-power to not draw in my notes or avoid it completely. I feel that even though the skill of being able to paint is pretty useless in modern times, what I learned from working to get better, learning to focus, was more important than anything I was taught in school.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.
I AM SUPER ADEQUATE AT DRAWING.
By: Elizabeth HooperI have never been able to focus. In many aspects of my life, there is a lack of focus; my vision is blurry, my hearing is not the best, and I could rarely pay attention in school. Ever since I was little I could only ever channel my energy and focus on one thing. When I was little, my mother used to run a day-care out of our house. I remember that often there would be crafts, or a time set aside to color. I would spent the entire time in my chair, legs folded neatly beneath myself, with my head on the table. I refused to yield my seat for anything. No matter how hungry or tired I was, I couldn’t leave the spot until I was done. (What if someone took my spot, or, god-forbid, my crayons!) Whenever I draw, time seems to slow down. I can be sitting for hours on end and it feels like it has been ten minutes until I realize that it is four in the morning.
One of the reasons that time seems to slow down for me is because I always felt this intense need to do something amazing, something that I could never seem to accomplish. If I were to thank anyone for this, I would have to thank my mom. A lot of the other mothers in the neighborhood told my mom that she was wrong because sometimes, when I showed her a picture, she would tell me it wasn’t good, because she knew that it wasn’t my best work. My mom telling me that I was not performing at my best pushed me to do better. As though I had to win her approval. Although she didn’t seem invested in my drawing ability, I felt compelled, even as a child, to impress her by drastically improving.
I remember a numerous string of teachers, art teachers, elementary school teachers and others, who always seemed to try to crush my creative spirit. In particular, there was one test in fifth grade on fractions. There were two rectangles divided into eight little squares with instructions to color in 1/2 of the squares. I colored in every other square to create a checkered pattern. I still filled in half of the squares, but I didn’t get the question right. On a homework worksheet earlier in elementary school, we were asked to draw “two figures on the back of this page”. I remember working for hours, sitting at the table and then later crying upon realizing the mistake I had made, seeing that the rest of the worksheet was about triangles and circles. I drew two very elaborately detailed people, working on them for a good three hours before my dad came and told me that that wasn’t what the question had asked for. During the CMTs (Connecticut Mastery Test), I got bored, and instead of answering the questions, I spent the entire time filling in each bubble with a little picture of a cat.
In elementary school, I would stay behind because I would work until the end and then I would have to clean up my mess and I would clean up after other children too. I remember my neighbor telling me how the art teacher at our school asked her if one of her pieces could be displayed in an art show. My neighbor asked me if I was asked to have something in it too, and when I said no, she told me that that was because I wasn’t a good artist. She later told me that when we grew up, I couldn't be an artist because that was going to be her job.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.
On my third day of high school, I had Drawing I, and I showed the teacher something that I had been working on. She looked at it for a moment and then told me that what I had made was not art. After that class, I didn’t really do anything art related publicly until my senior year of high school. I still sketched little things on the sides of my homework, and did smaller things on the side, but I never put my name on anything I cared about after that. I had to get better to return and amaze everyone.
By my senior year, the school had gotten a new art teacher and I decided I would take another art class. This would be the first time I ever received an A in an art class. Soon after the start of the class, I began spending entire nights drawing by lamplight again. Erasing and redrawing and erasing and correcting the curve of a human cheek. I would spend days on end working with a single sheet of paper and a pen. I would put so much work into in class assignments, that even after coming in after school, during every lunch, and during study hall, any particular project could take months. The teacher never deducted late points from my work because she knew how much effort I would put into it. She would tell me what I was doing wrong and how I could fix it, rather than telling me that I was not good at art.
I feel like, in my experience, most of the time, people have been telling me I can’t. The people who should matter the most, close friends, family, art teachers, have all told me at one point or another that I am not, or will not, ever be able to amount to anything, as far as art is concerned. And because everyone was always telling me I can’t, I put a lot of energy into proving them wrong. When I was nominated class artist, before going on the stage, I had to ask the boy in front of me if they actually called my name. And even though I have put so much effort into becoming sufficient in art, I don't plan on officially continuing it. I don't think I will ever have the will-power to not draw in my notes or avoid it completely. I feel that even though the skill of being able to paint is pretty useless in modern times, what I learned from working to get better, learning to focus, was more important than anything I was taught in school.
I AM SUPER ADEQUATE AT DRAWING.
By: Elizabeth HooperI have never been able to focus. In many aspects of my life, there is a lack of focus; my vision is blurry, my hearing is not the best, and I could rarely pay attention in school. Ever since I was little I could only ever channel my energy and focus on one thing. When I was little, my mother used to run a day-care out of our house. I remember that often there would be crafts, or a time set aside to color. I would spent the entire time in my chair, legs folded neatly beneath myself, with my head on the table. I refused to yield my seat for anything. No matter how hungry or tired I was, I couldn’t leave the spot until I was done. (What if someone took my spot, or, god-forbid, my crayons!) As soon as I started drawing, it always has seemed that time kind of stops. I can be sitting for hours on end and it feels like it has been ten minutes until I realize that it is four in the morning.
I felt this intense need to do something amazing, something that I could never seem to accomplish. If I were to thank anyone for this, I would have to thank my mom. A lot of the other mothers in the neighborhood told my mom that she was wrong because sometimes, when I showed her a picture, she would tell me it wasn’t good, because she knew that it wasn’t my best work. Although she didn’t seem invested in me drawing well, I felt compelled, even as a child, to drastically improve.
I remember a numerous string of teachers, art teachers, elementary school teachers and others, who always seemed to try to crush my creative spirit. In particular, there was one test in fifth grade on fractions. There were two rectangles divided into eight little squares with instructions to color in 1/2 of the squares. I colored in every other square to create a checkered pattern. I still filled in half of the squares, but I didn’t get the question right. On a homework worksheet earlier in elementary school, we were asked to draw “two figures on the back of this page”. I remember working for hours, sitting at the table and then later crying upon realizing the mistake I had made, seeing that the rest of the worksheet was about triangles and circles. I drew two very elaborately detailed people, working on them for a good three hours before my dad came and told me that that wasn’t what the question had asked for. During the CMTs (Connecticut Mastery Test), I got bored, and instead of answering the questions, I spent the entire time filling in each bubble with a little picture of a cat.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.
I never got an A in art class until senior year of high school. I always tried to do more than was asked of me, instead of just doing the assignment. In elementary school, I would stay behind because I would work until the end and then I would have to clean up my mess and I would clean up after other children too. I remember my neighbor telling me how the art teacher at our school asked her if one of her pieces could be displayed in an art show. My neighbor asked me if I was asked to have something in it too, and when I said no, she told me that that was because I wasn’t a good artist. She later told me that when we grew up, I couldn't be an artist because that was going to be her job.
On my third day of high school, I had Drawing I, and I showed the teacher something that I had been working on. She looked at it for a moment and then told me that what I had made was not art. After that class, I didn’t really do anything art related publicly until my senior year of high school. I still sketched little things on the sides of my homework, and did smaller things on the side, but I never put my name on anything I cared about after that. I had to get better to return and amaze everyone.
By my senior year, the school had gotten a new art teacher and I decided I would take another art class. Soon after, I began spending entire nights drawing by lamplight again. Erasing and redrawing and erasing and correcting the curve of a human cheek. I would spend days on end working with a single sheet of paper and a pen. I would put so much work into in class assignments, that even after coming in after school, during every lunch, and during study hall, any particular project could take months. The teacher never deducted late points from my work because she knew how much effort I would put into it.
I feel like, in my experience, most of the time, people have been telling me I can’t. The people who should matter the most, close friends, family, art teachers, have all told me at one point or another that I am not, or will not, ever be able to amount to anything, as far as art is concerned. And because everyone was always telling me I can’t, I put a lot of energy into proving them wrong. When I was nominated class artist, before going on the stage, I had to ask the boy in front of me if they actually called my name. And even though I have put so much effort into becoming sufficient in art, I don't plan on officially continuing it. I don't think I will ever have the will-power to not draw in my notes or avoid it completely. I feel that even though the skill of being able to paint is pretty useless in modern times, what I learned from working to get better, learning to focus, was more important than anything I was taught in school.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends in elementary school. I never talked to anyone, because I was too busy doing my own thing. My best friend was blind and I avoided almost everyone else. When other kids would play tag during recess, I would sit inside drawing. I would cover up my drawings, hunched over them, shielding them with my body as I worked. I didn’t want anyone to see. In middle school, teachers always saved my work as an example for future classes and I felt embarrassed. “It isn’t my best work” I would say, “I can do better.” However, as early as in my first yearbook, the few people who signed it always wrote messages like “you are good at drawing”, or "don't ever stop drawing". It seemed to be that that would be my identity for life. Like I was somehow branded by that first signing of yearbooks in second grade.